


As beasts do

by blackeyedblonde



Series: ✨Babies, Beasties, and Breeding Kink✨ [4]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Animal Transformation, Animalistic, Babies, Bonding, Breeding, Egg Laying, Eggs, Griffins, Hermaphroditic Anatomy, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Monster On Monster Action, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Nesting, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shapeshifting, Switching, Telepathy, Tenderness, animal birth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2020-12-01 23:55:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20940587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackeyedblonde/pseuds/blackeyedblonde
Summary: Hank is the larger and stronger figure between the two of them by far, but he lets Connor loom above him, beautiful hands braced like claws on either side of Hank’s head while a rosy flush crawls from the base of his throat to the middle of his pale sternum. He pants in the dry air, slender cock resting there against the swell of Hank’s gut where he’s pinning his hips.How divine it would be, Hank muses, to have all this beauty for himself.“If you want to claim me,” he growls, reaching between them to wrap his broad hand around Connor’s length without fear, “then you should do it wholly, as beasts do in the dirt.”+ + +Chapter 1: live babies, shapeshifter gryphon breeding, both Hank & Connor breed and have kits togetherChapter 2: eggs, gryphon on human breeding, erotic egg laying, oral sex, only Connor goes into heat





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Howdy, this is another oddball foray into previously unknown territory for me re: mythical critter sex. It's so far removed from canon that it's probably an original work more than an AU, but Hank and Connor are shapeshifters who have both a human form and a gryphon/griffin form. They initiate sex in their human forms and present as male, but when they’re in their gryphon forms they are intersex creatures with the capability to breed each other and also carry young. Please be forewarned, once again: they initiate sex as humans, but then KINDA go feral and finish it as gryphons. Everything is completely consensual and they communicate telepathically when they aren’t in human form. It’s also pretty fucking tender because it’s me writing it, your resident vanilla hoe. 
> 
> Also, since I can’t seem to write mythical breeding kink nonsense without babies, they both have a litter of gryphon kits. There’s a lengthy birth scene all contained in the section labeled Part 2 if you’d rather avoid it in sum total and just came for the horny, though it’s not anything excessively graphic. Mostly just fluffy purring hurt/comfort bonding nonsense for cuteness’ sake. Oversized kittens with wings: self-care. 
> 
> They can either look like traditional gryphons with bird features or like the Trico creature from The Last Guardian, it’s up to you.

  
  
  
Hank is dozing on the cliffside’s cooler rocks beneath the shade of an ancient, gnarled oak when he catches the scent on the air. 

He raises his head to the wind, opening his mouth to let the smell coat his tongue and the delicate olfactory receptors there. He can detect prey from miles away in this form, but what he scents now is far from prey. A shadow moves across the rocks as it circles high above and Hank’s body ripples with anticipation, though not out of fear of any danger. He stays stretched out on the rocks, casually flipping the tip of his tail to and fro, simply waiting until there’s the muffled flap of enormous wings and four feet touch down on the cliff.

The newcomer is dark and blackish-blue, coat slicked to a high sheen like a prizewinning show horse, slender and lean in the hips. Younger than Hank by far and not yet carved up with old battle scars. He bows in something akin to deference, going down on one front knee like a chivalrous courter. Hank’s chest rumbles at the sight; this isn’t their first meeting by far, but he hasn’t been propositioned like this in many years.

_I’ve been waiting,_ Hank thinks aloud, eyes narrowed like he’s smiling. The smell of rut radiates off the other gryphon, musky and strong, and he feels his pulse race in a new unbidden tempo. _See something you like?_

_Only one thing, _Connor answers, drawing back up to his full stature so Hank can see the inquisitive brightness in those amber brown eyes. He rises to his own feet as they move toward each other, the shift happening almost incidentally, and before Hank knows it he’s being drawn into a kiss by the sinewy strength of a younger man in the gryphon’s place, both of them shamelessly naked as they collide in a tangle of limbs, teeth, and tongue.

“I’ve missed you,” Connor rasps after he breaks the kiss, pressing the words somewhere against an ugly scar on Hank’s collarbone before dragging his nose up the column of Hank’s throat to bask in his scent. Already he trembles from head to toe with need, and Hank cups a broad hand around the small of his back to trace a soothing thumb along the dip of Connor’s spine.

“I see you knew where to find me,” he says, teasingly. “Didn’t want you to search for long.”

They’ve known each other for some time now but this is the first year their ruts have coincided, finally eclipsing like the alignment of the sun and moon. Connor is young and new at all this, still in his prime but incredulously untouched, and Hank’s been through too many lonely seasons to count.

“You’re the only one I could smell for miles,” Connor says, stepping back to look up at Hank through the spread of his lashes, almost shyly despite the hungry dilation of his dark pupils. “I’m surprised you don’t have more suitors knocking down your door.”

Hank laughs at that. “Me?” he asks, humor rumbling in his chest. “I should be asking why _you_ haven’t taken up any of the other handsome prospects.”

Connor’s mouth is already at the hinge of his jaw, tongue darting out for a taste. “You know why, Hank.”

Behind them, set deeper into the cliff’s face, is a cavernous crag cut into the rock. It was probably carved out by a glacier half a million or so years ago, some profound movement of earth and time that resulted in this den that Hank now leads Connor toward with his heart thudding in his chest. The scent of rut fills his nose and he’s having difficulty focusing on anything but the potent need coursing through every cell in his body. His human form vibrates around him like a second skin, the clawed creature within wanting to burst free more with every passing moment.

Young stud that he still is, Connor’s patience wears thinner and faster than Hank’s does. Once they’re inside the cool cover of ancient rock, bare feet padded on the soft grasses Hank had nested there, he presses himself flush to Hank’s back and rubs the building hardness of his cock against the seam of Hank’s ass, fingertips bruising at his hips.

Connor’s teeth sink into the meat of Hank’s shoulder, only a love bite compared to what he could do in his other form, and when his fingers reach to probe the aching place between Hank’s cheeks there’s a snarl and a shout as Hank veers around in a flash to rebuke him.

The struggle is brief and Hank lets himself be overpowered because he knows there’s no danger in Connor’s eagerness. He lands on his back, breathing hard and fast, and doesn’t make any move to buck Connor off. His nostrils flare and his pupils constrict to pinpricks, blue irises full of golden flecks of fire.

Hank is the larger and stronger figure between the two of them by far, but he lets Connor loom above him, beautiful hands braced like claws on either side of Hank’s head while a rosy flush crawls from the base of his throat to the middle of his pale sternum. He pants in the dry air, slender cock resting there against the swell of Hank’s gut where he’s pinning his hips.

How divine it would be, Hank muses, to have all this beauty for himself.

“If you want to claim me,” he growls, reaching between them to wrap his broad hand around Connor’s cock without fear, “then you should do it wholly, as beasts do in the dirt.”

Connor searches his face, then, as if this turn of events was something unexpected. That explains why he’d shifted into his slighter form to take Hank in his arms, before.

“You would carry my children?” he asks, like it’s simultaneously the most simple and sacred question in the world. In their realm of existence, perhaps it is. Connor bows over to press his lips at the corner of Hank’s mouth for his next question, almost in supplication, trembling again as he speaks in a voice hardly above a whisper. “You would have me carry yours?”

Hank nods, having already made his decision some time ago. “Who else?” he asks, indulging himself as he touches the errant curl of hair against Connor’s forehead. Their eyes meet and hold, searching for truths, and then Hank has to make himself look away as he clears his throat.

“Guess it occurs to me now that I don’t see any point in us being apart,” he murmurs. “If that would keep you near me, Connor, then I wouldn’t hesitate.”

When Connor’s round pupils narrow into slits, Hank knows their fate is sealed. His new mate kisses him fully this time, holding Hank’s chin with fine fingers while he gently nips at his bottom lip.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Connor rasps, and then the shift happens at the height of his next drawn breath. Hank looks up into the feathered face still looming above him and feels a tremor run deep through his human body. He turns to roll off his back, and by the time he’s on his hands and knees there are two winged creatures in the den in place of two men.

They circle each other for a moment, speaking silently through the twitch of a tail here, the roll of a muscled flank there. Connor moves to kneel again but Hank makes a low sound in his chest and goes down on his front legs instead, strong hindquarters raised in the air—presenting himself for the taking. Connor quickly takes notice, wings shivering where they’re folded against his sides.

Somehow, the passion and tenderness between men isn’t lost in their transformation into beasts. Hank had once thought he couldn’t be taken and pleasured in this form, not in the ways it mattered—without the softness of heated skin or the ardent press of lips, the quivering of a stomach or the insistent press of fingers into his body, but perhaps he was wrong.

Connor nuzzles along his feathered flank and chirps at him sweetly, warm breath puffing against Hank’s soaking entrance as he moves around to inspect his new prize. The heady smell of pheromones signals how feral they both are, the raw energy of it crackling in the den’s air.

Hank’s heavy cock hangs beneath him, untouched and slipped free from its sheath, useless for now until later when he takes Connor for himself. The second hole beneath his tail twitches in anticipation, aching with depthless want, and it’s been so long since he’s been filled up that Hank doesn’t know if it will hurt—but he doesn’t care.

He growls and digs his claws into the earth, far past impatient now himself, but Connor quietly snaps his beak and raises one talon to apply pressure to Hank’s rump until he knows what his mate is asking. He heaves out a great sigh as he obediently lowers onto his haunches, still on display with his wings spread out so he can be mounted. Connor grunts, apparently pleased with that, and then sinks down to straddle across Hank’s broad back and lovingly rub his muzzle between silvered shoulder blades.

It occurs to Hank that they’ve hardly shared any thoughts since they left their human forms behind, and he already misses the gentle rasp of Connor’s voice in his mind.

_Are you going to fuck me or not?_ Hank thinks, loudly, raising his tail and shivering when he feels Connor’s hard cock drop down against his rear.

_That and more,_ Connor promises, growling low in his chest. He curves himself over Hank until his beautiful dark-feathered face is resting at his shoulder, far too tender for such fearsome beasts but by no means unwelcome. Hank is thankful for it when Connor lines himself up, the flared tip of his cockhead brushing Hank’s hole, and thrusts his strong hips forward in one swift motion. His long shaft sinks into Hank’s entrance halfway up to the hilt, and this time Hank has no words, only a deep, rumbling groan as he lets himself be speared on Connor’s cock.

It doesn’t hurt—in fact, he needs _more_.

Connor never once loses himself, humping Hank from behind with quick, measured thrusts, but he doesn’t slide in all the way. Hank’s seen that cock, felt it, knows how much deeper it can go. There’s some hidden place inside him that feels swollen and sensitive with how much it needs to be touched, as tender as ripening fruit, and he hisses every time Connor thrusts into him but doesn’t go far enough.

_Do it, Connor_, he thinks as he pants in harsh, gasping breaths, claws raking up rock and gravel from the ground. _Claim me._

There’s a throaty sound and Connor’s own talons flex as he tries to anchor himself, powerful legs fumbling when Hank pushes his ass up into the air enough that it briefly knocks them off balance. But for what little ground he loses Connor makes it up in quick stride, because the next thing Hank knows there’s the sharp, piercing pain of a bite at his shoulder in the same moment Connor’s cock rams deep enough to brush the entrance of his womb.

Hank cries out in pleasure, in his mind and in the den both. He can do nothing now but lay here and take what Connor gives him, rendered immobile with the other gryphon pinning him into the dirt. He grunts and mewls, unaccustomed to the sound of surrender rattling in his throat, and relishes in the feeling of being fucked open and apart.

When Connor’s cock begins to swell in his passage Hank can feel it, stretching him, a beautiful kind of pain that he welcomes alongside the sharp ache in his shoulder where Connor’s teeth had held him. The knot spasms as Connor’s thrusting grows more erratic and primal, and Hank thinks he’s too far gone to find through their connection until he hears that gentle rasp, as real as if it’d been whispered in his ear.

_You’ll carry our children so well, Hank. A brood as fine and handsome as their father. _

_Then give them to me_, Hank demands, and feels himself clench around Connor’s cock just as it pulses and empties deep inside him, sending rope after rope of seed into his body. Hank collapses and writhes beneath Connor’s weight, passage fluttering to keep his mate’s shaft held in place. The other gryphon is slender but all lean muscle and Hank can feel the strength in Connor’s chest as he humps him through the aftershocks, sunk and knotted as far into Hank as he can possibly go.

Connor purrs and chirrups with sweet sounds even as his cockhead still feebly twitches against the spongy heat of Hank’s innermost passage, knot anchoring him in place. He idly grooms the feathers at Hank’s nape despite their joining, nuzzling his temple with doting reverence.

_Are you alright, my love?_ Connor asks, closing his eyes as he presses their noses together gently, in what might otherwise be a tender kiss if they’d made love in their two-legged forms. Even sprawled across Hank’s back with his cock keeping a small flood of spend from trickling back out, there is a gracefulness to Connor’s words and movements that’s undeniable.

Hank groans, ruffled and disheveled, wings still spread out along the sprawl of their nest. Connor’s seed fills him utterly, thick and warm enough that he can feel the heat of it inside himself. Even so, his own cock stirs beneath him—not yet flagging despite being very much still speared at the end of Connor’s flared shaft—and he glimpses the near future where he wrestles Connor onto his haunches and finishes what was started when they fell into rut.

Hank must’ve not veiled that thought through their connection, because Connor hisses with desire and rolls his hips enough that the knot sinks an inch deeper into Hank’s body, stretching him even more.

_Want you so badly_, Connor says, purring against him. _Nobody else will claim me._

_I wouldn’t allow it,_ Hank answers, growling to prove his point. The very moment Connor’s cock slips free from his hole, he intends to make good on that promise. _I am yours, and you are mine._

For now, their tails twine together while they wait, and Connor tenderly licks the shallow wound on Hank’s shoulder where he’d bitten through the place where feathers turn into silver fur. It will heal in practically no time at all, but Hank finds that he thrills in the bright, sparkling pain of it. Connor had done that to him.

To think he had gone nearly a lifetime without this—but he knows he wouldn’t have permitted himself to be claimed as another’s, or even entertained the mere thought of carrying a litter. Not until now.

The sun is beginning to dip lower in the sky when at last Connor’s knot withdraws from Hank’s body, leaving him empty and loose once it’s gone. His used hole still twitches as it leaks, though he lowers his tail and immediately draws himself up on strong legs. Connor is already waiting for him, obediently kneeling with his front legs stretched out in front of him, graceful neck lowered between them so Hank can mount the long line of his dappled back.

Before he breeds him, Hank gently nibbles behind Connor’s ears and tries to pass as much of the adoration he feels through their connection as possible. Connor relaxes some beneath him when he senses it, purring despite the raw heat rolling off his body, and moves his tail to one side so he’s bared completely.

_I wanted you to be the first_, Hank hears, watching as Connor’s beautiful head turns so that one amber brown eye gazes up at him, so fond and trusting. _The only._

Even with the seed already taken deep somewhere in the well of his belly, he drives his cock into Connor’s willing body and claims him time and again until they can do nothing but collapse in exhaustion somewhere beyond the veil of nightfall.

In the nest he built for two, Hank curls against Connor’s side and stretches one wing over his mate, purring low in his chest until they both drift into the starry realm of sleep.  
  


  
* * *  
  
  


The next several weeks are long and hot as late summer unfurls into the beginning of autumn. They take turns hunting while they’re still able, eating their fill of deer and rabbit but gathering other rations into the den for later—nuts, fruits, fungi and even long bones still full of marrow.

There will come a point, Hank knows, where one of them whelps first. Every passing day it seems his belly grows heavier, and the first mate to deliver is usually the first one to return to the forest to hunt once they’ve recovered. The kits won’t need to eat meat for some time after they’re born, but feeding young isn’t a task that can be sustained on nothing but blackberries and acorns.

Hank feels the beginning movements of his babies and stretches out on his side to watch them wrestle each other around the womb in something akin to wonder. His only other child in recent years had been human, fully so, and carried by a mortal woman he wooed by a stream, who’d captured his heart and mind for a brief time. Hank had loved their Cole beyond what he believed was possible, even if he’d only fathered the boy and not carried him himself.

Somehow, knowing he holds Connor’s kits inside him is a comfort. Their closeness every second of every new day is an assurance he can grasp with both hands and hold onto. If they are with him, they’re safe. At least, he hopes, for now.

Connor glows, radiant and full of the new life he’s carrying himself, preening at every moment. He grooms Hank in the long, dusky evenings they spend high up in the cliffside nest, licking around his ears and making cowlicked tufts of Hank’s mane lay flat only for a moment before they spring back up again.

There had been times in his past where Hank wondered if his kind had been cursed, living along a divided plane of humanity where they could never fully relate to the daily plight of man. If creatures who toiled in the dirt couldn’t hold onto the things they loved, always beholden to the changing of the earth and seasons. Perhaps that had been why he lost Cole.

Hank only knows this: he has spent his time on two legs, searching for things that always narrowly fell out of his grasp, but in these quiet moments with Connor content at his side he finds that he doesn’t tend to miss much at all.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**~*~*~Part Two~*~*~**

Not yet a full day after the crest of the autumn equinox, Connor wakes Hank in the night with a few worried swipes of his tongue, licking some of the sleepiness from his mate’s face. Hank rouses and knows without asking that the first of their litter is coming—even if he’s trying to hide it, the strain of labor makes Connor’s graceful body tense like a clenched fist.

_Hank_, Connor’s voice says in his head, a hushed but pleading thing. _I need you to help me. Please._

It may be dangerous to shift into his other form this close to his own time, but Connor’s brown eyes look afraid, imploring, and before Hank knows it he’s standing on two flat-soled feet, humanly naked and already kneeling to place his hands on his mate’s side.

“I know it hurts,” Hank says in a low voice, rough with disuse. He makes long, soothing strokes with his palm over the sleek fur on Connor’s belly, suddenly wishing he’d had the foresight to build a fire. He tries to feel for the kits shifting inside but doesn’t sense any movement, and it makes him afraid.

“Breathe, Connor,” he murmurs, willing any fear from his voice. “They will come.”

_Dead or alive,_ Hank thinks privately to himself with a somber, heavy heart. The first time one of their kind litters, the babies usually come early or in small numbers—and a single stillborn kit has never been something unheard of, especially for a younger parent like Connor.

It’s frightening, but Hank knows it’s far safer to bring their children into the world this way. As something wild, magic, and without the immediate, fragile weakness of humanity—a creature built to hunt rather than be hunted. Cole had been born into the arms of a human mother and he had died that way, too, in the end.

Connor mewls in a faint expression of pain, giving into instinct as his body contracts. Hank feels the muscles go taut beneath his hands and watches as Connor moves, restless, clawing at the den’s floor while he brings up his hind leg to try and quell some of the ache in his pelvis.

Hank knows he’d kept his most recent thoughts hidden, but Connor seems to have fallen into them himself anyway. _What if the baby is dead?_ he asks, sounding tearful. He pants shallowly and closes his eyes, making a mournful, primal sound even as Hank lays a hand against the beautiful feathers on his face.

“It won’t do any good to wonder right now,” Hank says quietly, wishing he could make this as swift and painless as possible. “We’ll know soon enough.”

He moves to sit there by Connor’s hindquarters, gently reaching down to check the progression of things. He’s surprised to find that Connor’s nearly delivered the baby, and with one final push the kit slips out into Hank’s waiting hands.

It’s silent as he peels the membrane away and begins rubbing it between his palms, a baby not much bigger than one of the mountain lion’s newborn cubs. Connor sags in relief but immediately curls around to look at their firstborn for himself, chirping and nuzzling the limp baby between Hank’s hands when it still doesn’t cry out or move.

_Hank_, Connor says, exhausted but gone frantic. _Help her._

“Come on, sweetheart,” Hank says, desperate and afraid in a way he hasn’t felt in a long time. He can’t lose another child—not after so much. “Papa’s got you, c’mon now.”

It takes a few more moments and Hank holding the kit up to gently breathe wind right into its nose, but then there is a feeble squawk and the kit draws its first real breath. Tears prickle at Hank’s eyes while he watches Connor carefully sever the cord before picking her up by the nape and bringing her around to start cleaning off the rest of the afterbirth. He cradles the baby between his front legs and purrs, trembling with reprieve as he noses at Hank’s hair.

_Our baby._

The child is dark-feathered, stormy roan and dappled like Connor. It’s not until she briefly opens her eyes that Hank can see they are a brilliant shade of telltale blue.

When he returns to his family it’s on four legs this time, lying down heavily at Connor’s side. The shifting between forms has taken a toll, but Hank curls against his mate and knows there won’t be any more kits tonight. When at last the newborn is dry, Hank picks her up and places her against the soft fur on Connor’s side so she can nurse. Deep purrs rumble in his own chest as he bumps his forehead against Connor’s, nuzzling him as the baby keeps warm between them.

_To think we aren’t even done yet_, Hank muses, and when Connor looks at him he swears he’s smiling. Hank’s big belly is surely holding more than just one tiny kit and they both know it. The babies could arrive any day now—it’s only a matter of time.

  
  
  
* * *  
  
  


Two days later, when Connor’s recovered enough to go out on his first hunt, Hank stays behind with their firstborn and keeps watch from the mouth of the den.

By all means he expected to last another week in the least, but when his own time comes early that evening he knows the signs for what they are. There’s no avoiding it, and he labors alone while the kit sleeps in the nest, restlessly pacing the den and begrudgingly sending up some silent prayer that Connor comes back before he’s too far gone to stop.

Even at this later stage in his life every little change and pain comes as a surprise. Hank’s body seems to know what to do, instinct taking over where his knowledge wanes or lapses, but the discomfort is so great he sits and nips at his own heavy belly as if to ward off the hurt.

He settles down in the nest and waits, grunting through the worst of it. He’s too damn old for all this, but he already knows that if Connor asks it of him again he wouldn’t be able to say no. That much becomes blissfully apparent when the first kit tumbles headfirst into the world, tawny and golden like fields of wheat. Not unlike the honeyed blond that had been on Cole’s curly head so many years before.

Hank tucks his baby close and feels such love and pride course through his body that there aren’t human words to describe it. If he were in his other form he knows he’d be openly weeping, and he only wishes Connor had been here with him to see it.

There’s only a brief respite from the pain while Hank cleans off their second-born, and when contractions begin overtaking him again there’s the flutter of wings as Connor returns to the den with two dead rabbits in his mouth.

He drops them in a rush when he realizes what he’s missed, at Hank’s side again in an instant. Connor gently snuffles the newest baby and vibrates with both nerves and joy, licking at Hank’s face while his mate grunts and bears down, ruffled with discomfort.

_There are more coming?_ Connor asks, full of jubilant disbelief, and looks on in amazement as Hank delivers two babies at once, still curled together in the same birth sack. Twins.

_Oh, Hank,_ Connor cries through their connection, cleaning off the kits before bringing them around so Hank can see them for himself. They’re pale silver and dappled with odd speckles of white, as bright as any full moon.

When the twins are drying and nestled alongside their littermate, Hank knows that his body is done for now. He lets himself rest at last and bids Connor bring their firstborn over, still tiny and helpless herself, all four of the babies curled up together in a pile between their parents. Connor’s tender purrs join Hank’s rumbling ones as they neck and nuzzle each other, happy and safe with their little family.

_Thank you_, Hank says, because it’s all he can really think to tell Connor. And then, despite what the grinding wheel of wilderness and worldly fauna would have predicted otherwise, _I love you_.

It feels so good to say, and even better when Connor tucks his head under Hank’s and repeats it back to him, sighing in such sweet contentment as the babies sleepily nurse from them both. They’ll grow stronger and bigger, and one day step into their second forms as naturally as breathing. Whether they’ll choose to live as winged beings or humans, Hank doesn’t know—and it won’t be his call to make.

What is humanity, after all? It’s difficult to say. They will all live and die, eventually, just like everything else on this earth. But in that interim, Hank knows without question that they’ll love, just as beasts do.   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, had to get that outta my system! Lmao. The most tender breeding kink in the wild west, some say. Anyway, the babies grew up big and beautiful and strong and they all lived happily ever after :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may be currently social distancing at home, but that doesn’t mean I can’t continue to bring tender monsterfucking porn and niche kinks straight to your doorstep. GET READY. It had to be exorcised from my system again before I could return to more serious projects for some incredibly good & patient people 😅 
> 
> Starring the OG gryphon husbands, on today’s menu: consensual gryphon-on-human breeding and erotic egg laying. Connor decides he wants to shift into his human form for creature sex this go-around, and...welp. Isn’t horny magic great? ONCE AGAIN: if you don’t like breeding kink and horny egg laying nonsense, this one isn’t gonna be fun to read. Also, there’s some lowkey cervix penetration. In case it makes anybody uncomfortable and you forgot after last time, it may be important to note that Hank and Connor’s anatomy in this setting is more aligned with intersex genitalia than anything strictly binary. They've got, well, everything. 
> 
> This takes place in the same universe as the first chapter, but instead of live babies Connor is coming in clutch with a few eggies this time. Happy Early Easter, lmao. S/O to Mango for helping me with original kit names a while back.
> 
> I can’t believe I wrote this. Have fun!

  
  
By the time Connor’s first kit has seen three fiery summers come and gone, his and Hank’s small litter has long since grown old enough to leave the nest and explore the wilderness on their own. 

The young gryphons depart for days and sometimes weeks at a time, off adventuring and hunting and striking cunning ventures by their own right. Their numbers are a modest four: Ash, Connor’s stormy-flanked firstborn, and then Hank’s tawny, bullheaded Rowan and his silvery twins, identical Artemis and Apollo. They’ve garnered an endless amount of knowledge and love from their parents but with the exception of the inseparable twins, Ash and Rowan have both been more than eager to begin their own journeys in life. 

They grow stronger and more beautiful every time Connor sees them, and he and Hank are both proud, even if the time between the kits departing and returning to visit the cave on the high cliffside stretches longer all the time. He knows and accepts it for what it ultimately is: they give in to the unavoidable impulse of instinct and take to their gifted wings and fly, just as all feathered beasts do.

As far as other instincts are concerned, well. Connor would be lying if he said the nest hasn’t felt dreadfully empty with just him and Hank to fill it up in the cold evenings overlooking the valley.

They are happy and perfectly content with each other, as they’ve always been, hunting by day and sharing simple meals in the evenings over the comforting crackle of a small fire. It’s easy to shift between forms as they see fit, purring and grooming each other with claws and beaks some nights and preferring to curl together in the nest under heavy blankets on others. It has been three years since either fell into a coinciding rut, but Connor knows their time is short: the longer the kits are gone, the more his body yearns for something that Hank can’t scratch for him like a simple itch on the surface of his skin. This goes so much deeper than that, into a wilder part of his brain where human thoughts turn into bestial things he can’t voice aloud.

He tries to put it from his mind most of the time, even on the dark nights when his burly mate holds him in human arms and kisses him sweetly as they make love by the light of dying embers. Their humble life is everything Connor has ever needed or desired, and yet he wants  _ more _ . From Hank. Always from his mate, and especially so now.

Hank knows, because he always does, even before the fated dusky evening when things finally coalesce into a sharp culmination. But Connor can see the realization crystallize into clearer focus there in the soft, intelligent blue of his mate’s eyes. Hank’s nostrils flare some as he picks up the heady scent the moment it breaks open like a flask of perfume on the air.

“You’re in heat again,” Hank says, watching Connor from across the fire they’ve been roasting strips of wild hare over. Silence settles in between the crackling pops of wood and cooking meat, and then Connor looks up to meet his gaze, mouth gone dry.

“And you’re not,” Connor says, hating how it sounds like a bitter lament. He’d so badly wanted for them to raise another joint family together again, a nest full of kits borne between them—but Hank hasn’t come into season yet this year, and the frustration of such terrible yearning makes Connor want to kill or weep or maybe even both. He can’t do this without his mate.

Hank studies his expression and sighs, words softer than before. “I don’t have to be, y’know,” he murmurs, still watching Connor. “There are other ways, Con...you know that.” 

Connor bites into his lower lip, eyes burning as he tries to find impossible words that won’t come to his human lips. He stands abruptly and darts to the mouth of the cave overlooking the moonlit cliff, but before he can shift and dive over the edge in a flurry of talons and feathers, Hank is gripping his shoulders from behind and gently pulling him back. 

“Easy, now,” Hank murmurs, holding a broad hand there in the center of Connor’s chest as his breath comes in short bursts. The raw heat of his body flush at Connor’s back is enough to make him squirm and dig his blunt nails into the muscle of Hank’s forearm, but the broader man doesn’t let go or relent. Connor wouldn’t run now, even if he truly wanted to.

“Tell me what’s wrong, baby,” Hank rumbles in his deep voice, lips pressing a soft kiss at the nape of Connor’s neck. Above them in the starry sky the ink-dark shapes of flying bats flutter to and fro, catching moths and insects on their own nighttime hunt. They squeak and crisscross each other’s paths in the air but never once collide. 

Connor watches them for a moment before drawing in a deep breath, trying to calm his body and nerves. Human rationale has never succeeded much in dampening the raw energy of the creature temporarily bound inside him, at least not where spoken words are involved. He turns in Hank’s arms and draws his face down so he can tip their foreheads together, not needing the proximity for communication as much as he needs it for the reassurance of their bond. 

When thought and feeling flows freely between them, Hank’s body seems to sag some in quiet understanding. The depth of love and wanting, the pang of something primal. He knows it because he’s lived with it, too, and even more than that. Hank knows loss more intimately than Connor ever could.

“I miss them, too,” he whispers, running his warm hands up Connor’s sides to hold him there, reverent and familiar. “They’ll always be ours, but we’ll have that again one day, Connor. I promise.” 

“But not this time,” Connor rasps, trying not to feel broken in the face of that truth. His whole body feels ignited, strumming with a rhythm only one dance can satiate, and somehow empty at the same time. A stone well that never fills despite a thousand years of rain.

“Not this time,” Hank echoes, smiling as he does. He kisses the pale, freckled skin below Connor’s eye and then slots their mouths together, pressing his fingers up the notches of his mate’s spine as he pulls him closer. “But I’ll still give you what you need.” 

Despite the strain of so many conflicting emotions, Connor’s already grown wet there at the junction between his thighs behind his hardening cock. His heat had come on swiftly and strong, as it usually does in the years after the first kits are born and leave the nest, and he knows there’s no staving this off for later. The gravelly depth of Hank’s voice makes him sway some in place, leaning most of his weight there against his lover’s thick body as he nips at the heated skin above Hank’s collarbone. 

“How?” he asks, just one simple question to challenge Hank’s promise. 

“However you’d like,” Hank answers, strong and yet gently confident as he draws Connor back toward their waiting nest. “Come on.” 

Inside once more, Hank moves their roasting rabbit onto a nearby stone to cool and then stands before Connor, palms upturned in offering. Their eyes catch and hold again as he wordlessly shifts into his other form, claws and silver feathers sprouting where strong fingers and wavy hair had been just a half-second before. When a great beast has taken place of a great man, the gryphon sets back on his haunches and watches Connor with familiar blue eyes, handsome head tipped to one side. He glows like sterling in the faint moonlight, dappled sides sleek where old scar tissue hasn’t gnarled or stretched.

It would be easy to shift and meet Hank head-on in his natural form, bow low on his clawed feet and let his mate take him from behind—their strength and power matched almost pound for pound, an endless battle of push and pull turned into something profound. 

But that isn’t what Connor wants, this time. 

Desire quivers high in his gut and makes his whole body burn from head to toe, hands shaking as he walks over to their rumpled bedding and kneels there on human knees before pulling his simple shift up over his head and tossing it to the side.

Hank stays silent, only watching with sharp-eyed intrigue as Connor strips himself naked and then lowers himself down on his forearms with nothing but the pale, supple curve of his ass raised in the air. He shivers in the cool night breeze beside the dying fire, but he knows that if he gets his way, he won’t be cold for long. 

_ Like this? _ Hank’s voice says in his head, soft but distinctly questioning.  _ I can change back, if you— _

“Don’t, Hank,” Connor croaks, forcing his voice out as he trembles and begins panting faster in anticipation. He squeezes his eyes shut but knows with every woven fiber of his soul that this is what he needs, right now. “Like this.  _ Exactly _ like this.”

There’s another spell of silence, and then:  _ I...don’t want to hurt you. _

“You won’t,” Connor hisses. “You can’t.” He feels swollen and aching there between his legs, the mounting arousal so much that he can hardly think of anything else; his cock is so hard it’s verging on painful. “I was made for this.”

He hears it when Hank’s talons scratch on the floor of their den as he approaches. There’s the musky scent of him, warm and wild, and then hot breath at his naked hip before it huffs there against his bare ass. Connor tries to bite back the wrecked sound rising in his throat but then outright mewls when he feels that long, pointed tongue dip between his folds for a taste, lapping at the warm wetness there.

_ Oh, you were, weren’t you, _ Hank’s voice says in his head, then. There’s a rumble of approval in the gryphon’s chest, something between a growl and a purr.  _ That and so much fuckin’ more. _

Connor could cry already from how much he needs Hank, this, for his heat to be quenched and finished. As he pushes his head down into their nest and spreads his knees to further signal he’s ready, his only regret is that he can’t turn around and do the same to Hank tonight. But he will, he knows. One day, not too far in the distant future, when Hank’s ready to carry another litter sired by Connor and nobody else. 

Their size difference makes this coupling unusual to start, but Hank moves confidently and nuzzles Connor’s side before the soft rasp of feathers and then fur slides along his back. Connor can feel the heat and muscle in Hank’s solid belly against his skin, though his mate has obviously taken care not to bear too much weight on him. Hank curves over Connor now, massive and broad, but keeps his wings tucked against his sides as he goes down on his front knees so his massive head bows into the crook of Connor’s shoulder.

Connor glances to the side and gazes into that pale cornflower eye with its strange birdlike pupil, knowing this is what he needs. Nobody else on earth could give him this; and if they could, he would only ever want for Hank while they’re both still living. The gryphon mounted on him blinks, and for just a moment it looks like he’s smiling. 

“ _ Please _ , Hank,” Connor begs, unashamed, fingers curling into clawlike fists. “I can’t wait any longer.”

_ You’re gonna kill me one of these days, baby, _ Hank’s voice says in Connor’s head, sounding strained.  _ Hold on tight. _

Then there’s the nudge of something large and searing-hot at his ass as Hank’s shaft slips free and hangs between his legs. Connor moans aloud, feeling his muscles clench around nothing, and swears and hisses through the first two blunt jabs of Hank’s cockhead before it finally pushes inside him past the tight opening of his hole.

Connor grunts but doesn’t flinch away at the sudden, bright pain of being speared open. Hank pushes in another inch, maddeningly slow, but finds no real resistance. Connor’s so wet there’s slick running between his thighs, dripping from the tip of his own cock and making a mess of everything. He wiggles his ass and tries to push back onto Hank’s length but it’s no use from this angle, and Hank admonishes him for it with a gentle bite against his shoulder.

_ Be patient _ , he says, claws digging into the floor for purchase, and then thrusts in another two inches that make Connor sees tiny stars implode in front of his eyes. There’s so much of Hank’s cock left to go; this isn’t even half, and even if he can’t take the whole thing he’s going to die trying. The stretch is so sweetly unbearable, the kind of delicious pain Connor would break himself over an altar for. This human vessel wasn’t meant to take Hank like this, but it’s going to. Oh, it will. 

Connor huffs and groans and squeezes around the thick head of Hank’s cock, tirelessly rocking back for more until the beast above him makes a deep, guttural sound and presses an elbow into the middle of his back, forcing him down to stay bent in half. The slow stretch continues to split Connor in two, and then Hank’s warm breath is at his temple again. 

_ Can you take all of me? _

“Yes,” Connor rasps, crying now, uncaring as hot saline streaks down his face so much that he can taste his own tears. “Yes, Hank, let me, oh my God—please, let me have it.” His heat is burning him up like wildfire, every inch of skin aflame with it. “I need you too….need you to do it…”

_ Do what, sweet boy? _ Hank asks him, shoving in another thick inch.  _ Tell me. _

Connor would round on him and strike Hank at this point if he were in his other form, pin him to the ground by the throat and tell his mate without the triviality of words, but in this moment—overpowered and surrounded—he can’t do anything but let the truth surge through him and bleed past the horror of having to ask out loud.

“Breed me,” he nearly snarls, so loud it echoes through the dark cavern. The admission makes him sag some, face miserably pressed into their bedding as he tries to breathe through the feral hysteria, but Hank lifts the pressure from between his shoulder blades and nuzzles his face more tenderly than before, pausing just a few short moments before he growls and thrusts in to the hilt. 

Connor yells when he feels it happen. Not so much from pain as the kind of maddening pleasure that would tear ancient kingdoms up from the ground by the root and let civilizations fall into dust and ruin. Hank’s cock is sheathed inside him from base to tip, filling so much of him that Connor can reach back and press against his own flat abdomen to feel the heavy bulge there. Even more than that, when Hank draws back and pivots in with a rocking thrust, the tip of his cockhead rams against the softened barrier at the mouth of Connor’s womb.

It doesn’t hurt when he’s in rut. Oh, god, far from it. His knees buckle as Hank touches that deep place inside him again and again, and then Hank is kneeling low to settle some of his weight at Connor’s back as he continues fucking into him, powerful thighs rippling as he rolls his hips and works his mate into the ground.

The delicate  _ pop _ low in Connor’s pelvis shakes him like an earthquake when Hank’s cock finally breaches beyond the end of his passage. He freezes, instinctually unable to move now that he’s been speared like this, and keens as he feels the base of Hank’s shaft beginning to swell inside him. It stretches until Connor thinks he’s going to come apart, belly clenching as his hole bears down around the thick cock lodged inside him. 

Hank groans, sounding wounded, and snorts as he gets closer, thrusts turned erratic and wild. He pulls his growing knot out one last time and shoves it back into Connor’s dripping hole with purpose, and when he feels himself slip to the very end and hit the place where he knows the breeding happens, he shivers with a shimmer of feathers and lets himself come. 

Connor’s body milks him through it, even in this form, trying to wring out every ounce of spend from Hank’s pulsing cock. The flared tip of it is wedged as far as it can possibly go, coating Connor’s insides with pearly white while his mate gasps and trembles beneath him. 

“Hank, Hank,” Connor moans, mindless and hoarse, body still fluttering even as Hank’s knot keeps him filled and rooted to the spot. His face is damp with sweat and tears, hair plastered to his forehead in soaked curls. The flush on his cheeks has traveled all the way down to his chest and belly, rosy and warm to the touch, but it’s finally beginning to cool now that he’s been bred. The knowledge washes over him in relief as a light wind blows in from the mouth of the den, bringing the earthy nighttime smell of their valley with it.

Spent himself, Hank huffs into Connor’s hair and does his best to stretch out alongside him, slowly shifting his weight over onto a hip and shoulder. They’re still joined together, precarious as it is, and Connor winces at the movement but can breathe easier without a thousand pounds of gryphon pinning him in their nest. Hank curls around him protectively, even with his knot still plugging Connor full of everything that should bring them another litter of kits. 

_ I hope that helped _ , he says, voice full of humor and gruff fondness, just as if it’d been whispered in Connor’s ear. Connor can barely lift his head but smiles dazedly, reaching down to touch the bulge still pressing outward from his lower belly. He can’t believe how much of Hank is inside him, except he can, because if he moves just-so exhausted tears burn behind his eyes when his mate’s cockhead nudges the spot inside him that nearly sends him cresting over the edge again.

“You know it did,” Connor croaks, unable to help himself as he reaches down to stroke his dick even with Hank still locked in his womb. He doesn’t get fully hard again, but the stimulation is enough to make a few weak spurts of come bead and dribble there between his thighs. He wishes he’d been able to return this favor, exactly like Hank had done for him, but hopes and knows there will be a next time. Not an ounce of his release squandered or wasted.

_ You’re insatiable, y’know _ , Hank says, sighing as he tucks his big head against Connor’s shoulder again. He rolls his hips, at least as much as a four-legged beast can in this position, and rumbles when he hears the cut-off whine Connor makes as a result.  _ Already full of our kits and still wanting more. _

“I wonder how many,” Connor murmurs aloud, shivering some in a mixture of exhaustion and excitement. He’d taken to being a parent like he’d taken to flight, and with Hank at his side he can’t think of anything he wants more right now. His first kit had been a single, hard-won after a difficult labor, but Ash is strong and beautiful and the spitting image of her father—grey and dark like the clouds of an impenetrable storm. 

_ Hopefully only as many as we can handle _ , Hank snorts, purring low and deep now, the vibration rumbling through them both like an idling motor.

Connor thinks of their first litter and can’t help but smile, full of love and bliss, sated at last. He snuggles back against his mate in their mess of a nest and lets Hank’s body heat and feathers keep him warm. They’ll be locked together for some time, but for now, Connor is perfectly content to close his eyes and rest until morning’s first light.   
  
  


* * *   
  


  
  
Spring arrives in the valley, bringing with it an abundance of new life.

Connor spends much of the early months hunting and gathering things to better furnish their nest. The changes in his body are less marked when he’s in his four-legged form, but he senses the growing heaviness in his belly as the weeks begin to steadily wear on toward summer. Hank likes to nuzzle him there on the nights they groom each other, licking the sleek fur to a high sheen while Connor purrs and cleans behind Hank’s tattered ears.

It’s certainly easier to carry a litter with this long and powerful body, but he indulges himself from time to time, shifting over to check the growing roundness at his middle. When the nights are long and hot and the whisper of a cool breeze feels good on his bare skin, Connor will stretch out at Hank’s side and wait for the inevitable shift and press of a broad, roughened palm against his belly. The greatest part of their humanity, Connor sometimes muses, is the beauty and convenience of five-fingered hands. The second part is easier to remember when he feels the warm press of lips at the corner of his mouth, then that familiar hand dipping lower to somewhere hidden between his legs.

The elder kits come to visit in the final two weeks before their siblings are due to arrive. The twins bring a fresh deer, perfectly whole and unmarred save for the sharp bite wound at its jugular. By nature’s standard’s they’re all fully grown, though when they shift to sit around the fire in their parents’ company and share cuts of roasted meat, they still look so young and vibrant, caught somewhere between childhood and adulthood. Not quite old enough to have their own families, yet, though Connor and Hank both know it won’t be too long until they become grandparents, especially if young Rowan has anything to say about it. 

He favors Hank the most; tall and broad across the shoulders, with Connor’s dark honey eyes and a sandy mop of curls that is unmistakably his Papa’s. Hank looks at him with a peculiar wistfulness in his eyes sometimes, and has always been harder on Rowan than all the rest of their children. Connor knows the boy reminds him of his Cole, passed on to the next realm now for many years.

For their own part, the kits don’t seem phased that they’ll be expecting new brothers and sisters soon. They no longer stay long in the nest, there one morning and gone the next, though they all promise to come visit once the new babies arrive. Ash shifts and pulls a small leather pouch from around her neck before she departs, a gift of powdered herbs she’s brought from her journeys elsewhere.

Connor kisses his firstborn goodbye and thinks back to the night she was born, and how he’d been so afraid for a few terrifying moments that she wouldn’t live. He’d labored in his other form and even then it had been difficult, and the ghost of fear creeps back into the edges of his heart. He wonders if the second time will be easier or worse. 

Hank does his best to be reassuring, but it’s plain knowledge between them that they’ve both only ever carried one litter apiece. The larger Connor’s belly grows, the deeper the furrow between Hank’s brows grows as he tries to map out the shape of each kit under his hands. 

“There must be at least four, maybe five,” he murmurs one evening as heat lightning splinters across the wide horizon. He’s been wary of Connor shifting into his human form this close to giving birth, but the heat has been heavy and Connor enjoys the feeling of Hank’s hands soothing out the aches and pains in his lower back and thighs. 

Connor gets a strange expression on his face, even as he reaches out to affectionately push Hank’s hair behind one ear. “I think I should have them...like this,” he says, quiet but firm. “Since they were made this way.” 

Hank’s head snaps up and his expression hardens. “I don’t think so,” he says, jaw squared into a steely shape. “You know how dangerous it is, Connor—”

“You can do whatever you please,” Connor quips, sniffing lightly. “But I know I’d rather have my hands, this time. You remember...with the first baby, Hank. What we had to do.” 

Hank remembers it well; shifting and kneeling there at Connor’s side, his own belly heavy and ready to whelp any day. Ash had been born right into his human hands, and begun breathing only with their rigorous rubbing to stir the life back into her. He’s not sure how things would’ve gone if he’d refused to help Connor that night; he doesn’t like to think about it.

“I’ll change, then,” Hank says sharply. “It’s not dangerous for me to help.” 

But Connor seems to have already made up his mind, and gently shakes his head. “It feels right, this way,” he says. “I’ll turn back as soon as they’re here.” 

Hank wants to argue but knows there’s no use in trying to force Connor’s decision either way. They’re both stubborn, but his mate has a one-track mind when he gets a notion in his head. If this is his decision, then Hank will have no choice but to honor it as best he can. 

“I’ll be with you the whole time,” he says with a sigh, and tries to take some relief in Connor’s sweet smile. 

  
  
  
  


The evening the kits decide to come, the air is thick with static and ozone before a thunderstorm breaks open across the horizon. Connor’s belly is tighter than a drumhead and he tries to calm himself once the telltale signs start, soothing both hands over his abdomen while he slowly walks to and fro in their den. Hank is there, keeping silent watch from where he’s settled back on his haunches at the mouth of the cave. Rain begins falling behind him in the valley, filling their home with the sound of distant thunder. 

An hour passes, and then another. Connor feels a great heaviness begin shifting inside him and tries not to think of the building pressure, though he knows now that there’s no ignoring or avoiding it. He stops his pacing and goes to the soft bedding in their nest, dropping low into a crouch with his knees spread to start slowly rocking back and forth. He groans, long and low and deep, and when he looks up again Hank is there at his side.

_ How soon? _ he asks, bumping his nose at the small of Connor’s back, just a comforting thing to remind him he’s there.

“Soon,” Connor says, panting some now. Something inside him moves again, dropping lower than before, and he hisses when it brushes a spot that makes the air stall in his lungs. “O-oh. Oh, my God.”

Hank tries not to sound tense or alarmed.  _ What’s happening? Talk to me, Con. Does it hurt? _

Connor bites into his bottom lip, gripping his thighs as he drops even further and kneels. He’s making soft sounds, rocking himself some in place, and it’s only then that Hank notices Connor’s cock is rosy and slowly beginning to fill. 

“No. It feels, I feel—better than before,” Connor moans, drawing in a shaky breath. He bows over, shameless, heavy belly balanced there in their nest as he pushes his ass up into the air. Another contraction ripples through him, making his muscles flex and tighten, and that’s when Hank sees the crescent of deep blue shell appear for just a moment between Connor’s legs before sliding back out of view.

“Ah, ah, fuck,” Connor pants, still rocking his hips even as the first egg stretches him inside. He strains, and a small rush of clear fluid dribbles down his thighs. Hank doesn’t know what to do, and the thought of shifting into his human form doesn’t even occur to him in the moment—he simply crouches low, driven forward by some unnamed instinct, and laps at the tender skin and wetness to try and clean Connor up before he makes more of a mess.

Connor gasps and shouts at the first lave of Hank’s hot tongue over his hole, belly bearing down with another contraction. “Hank!” he mewls, high in his throat, a delicious rasping sound torn open and raw. “Hank, please, d-don’t stop.”

Hank pauses for a moment, knocked for a loop. But then Connor turns and looks back over his shoulder, eyes wide and pleading, and he knows he’d do anything Connor asked of him. It’s easier, then, to blow a warm breath against his mate’s folds and lap his long tongue through them, starting from Connor’s puckered hole and then all the way up to the seam behind his balls. 

It must be working, because Connor makes a noise unlike anything Hank’s ever heard as he’s lapped open, human or or otherwise, and comes the second Hank pushes his tongue against the nub at the top of his slit. The hard shell stretches him open and crowns there between his legs, and with another strangled half-shout and a push their first egg drops into the nest between Connor’s ankles. 

_ You did it, sweetheart, _ Hank tells him through their connection, gently licking Connor’s trembling thighs in encouragement.  _ Rest for a minute. _

Connor crumples inward, slowly turning round until he’s situated on his back on the soft bedding. He looks down at the egg he just pushed out, breath coming fast, and closes his eyes in temporary reprieve. It’s dark midnight blue and speckled with white, perfect and whole, and the size of a small melon. Hank can’t help but wonder how many more are yet to come. 

“Stay here with me,” Connor rasps, reaching down to touch the soft feathers on Hank’s forehead as he begins catching his breath. 

_ M’not going anywhere _ , Hank promises. leaning forward to press a tufted ear against the swell of Connor’s belly.  _ Tell me when you’re ready to keep going. _

Less than ten minutes pass before Connor’s heavier contractions start again. He’s more mindful of his breathing this time, concentrating as the second egg slowly moves into position, and reaches for Hank with spots of color dotted high on his cheeks. 

“Could you....please,” he says, flushed and dark lashes cast low, knees spread wide. “It helps me.” 

Hank rumbles as he leans back in, head balanced on his forepaws, and gently laps again at the opening between Connor’s legs. He runs his tongue along his mate’s cock for good measure and earns a delicious sound for his efforts, though Connor soon reaches down as if to pull it out of the way, holding his length in the crease of one thigh so Hank will focus elsewhere.

“Can you see it?” he chokes out, bearing down again with all his might, and Hank doesn’t see anything but if he pushes his tongue just an inch or two deep he can feel the hardness of a coming shell. He continues licking Connor open, patient and steady, and soon the egg is right there and straining to come out. 

_Feel_, Hank says simply, drawing back and nudging the back of Connor’s hand with his nose until his mate feels their crowning egg between his folds. _You’re so strong, Connor._ _You’re doing this._

Connor nods, keeping his hand there as he bears down again, and with Hank’s wet mouth on his cock he trembles and delivers the second of their clutch into the nest, as speckled and dusky blue as the first. Hank carefully tucks it to the side with its sibling and doesn’t waste any time before diving back in, purring to comfort them both as he keeps licking Connor’s hole to try and ease the passage, tenderly cleaning him at the same time. There’s the slight metallic taste of blood, but it’s nothing he’s not used to or bothered by. 

“Thank you, my love,” Connor says, sounding wrecked and overcome with a flurry of emotions. The rain continues to pour outside, lightning splintering through the black night, but they both feel warm and safe in their den, high above the rest of the earth. Connor rests for a while, dozing lightly while Hank keeps their clutch warm against his chest, but soon his body begins the process all over again. 

“I don’t know if I can do this,” he grunts, shiny with sweat and trembling all over. Connor needs more rest and perhaps something to eat, but Hank doesn’t know if he’d hold food down at this point. He wishes he’d had more prepared, but their stores of dried fruit and seeds seem too far away at the back of the den. There’s not time with the kits coming this fast.

_ You can _ , Hank says firmly.  _ You’ve already come so far, Con. You’re doing wonderful. _

“It’s too much,” Connor sobs, gritting his teeth when a contraction rips through him. His eyes are wet and bloodshot and Hank wishes he could kiss the weariness away or take it on himself, if only to see Connor smile and be finished with this trial. “I’m so tired, Hank.” 

_ I know, baby, _ Hank tells him, still purring as he noses against Connor’s hip.  _ Turn over on your side. It’ll help. _

Connor does as he asks, sinewy muscles in his calves and arms straining as he shifts his heavy body around. His belly has deflated some, but only slightly, and Hank prays for stamina for them both. The end has to be somewhere in sight; he’s never heard of a single clutch bigger than six.

Once he’s on his side, Connor draws his knees up as far as he can and bares himself again. Hank waits until he can see that first sliver of blue shell before he probes his tongue back in, gently coaxing Connor along with soft words he knows his mate can hear in his head, hot tongue all the while soothing sore skin. 

When Connor’s breathing and pushing becomes more insistent, Hank quickens his lapping and focuses on that nub again, moving faster, desperate to help. Connor is moaning, squeezing his own chest with one hand and biting his other fist as he squirms in place, hissing out a mindless litany of things. It builds and builds, the egg slowly coming to its widest point, Connor’s folds stretched impossibly wide, and then with one final push and a strangled scream Connor delivers the third of their clutch and then another immediately behind it in a rush, the two pale blue eggs falling there in the nest and leaving him gaping open. 

Hank huffs out an impressed sound and cleans the eggs off before nudging them to the side to keep from being crushed. He knows he’ll be the one keeping them warm later tonight while Connor rests, but they’re still not yet finished. 

“One more,” Connor croaks, voice nearly gone. He doesn’t rest this time, simply reaches for his cock and starts working it in his trembling fist. “I can feel it, Hank. Just...one more.” 

It comes as a shock when Connor rallies, drawing himself back up so he’s crouching there in the nest. He looks determined, wild and godlike, some deadly deity come to give birth to the whole damn world. His curls are damp with sweat and his face is blotchy with color, but he squats there and places both hands on his knees to hold his balance. He’s still shaking, but that doesn’t seem to be of any consequence now. Hank would cry if he could, just seeing something so powerful.

The final contractions start up and Hank doesn’t know what to say, so he leans in and offers himself as a brace to lean on. Connor gladly wraps his arms around Hank’s broad neck, holding on, and leans over to press his face into the soft, silvery feathers. 

Their connection in these last few moments is a wordlessly profound thing where neither need to speak or be spoken to. They simply keep each other grounded in this moment, in this plane, bound together on the earthly terrain where they have nothing to fear or bow to but each other.

Hank feels it in his own belly when Connor’s body bears down, clenching like a hardened fist, and begins pushing the last of their clutch from his womb. He feels salty tears and hears Connor’s labored breathing against his neck, wept there against a beating pulse point, and only welcomes Connor’s weight further. 

In the end, with one arm wrapped around his faithful mate and the other reaching beneath himself, Connor feels his fifth egg slip into his own outstretched palm, cupping it reverently until it slides free from his body. He slumps back into the nest, breathing hard, and holds the egg there between his hands at Hank gently cleans it off. 

When it’s washed and tucked with the others, Connor lays down and lets Hank lick him clean, tender and slow, before he uses the very last of his energy to shift back into his other form. He’s three times as large as he was before, and yet slumps there against Hank’s side with the eggs nestled between them, weak but proudly accomplished. 

Their brood is beautiful, like swatches of color taken from the morning and evening sky. They’ll need to be kept warm and turned for the next six weeks before they hatch, but that’s an undertaking well worth the love and investment. Now that the hard part is over, there’s nothing left to do now but rest and recover and bask in each other’s warmth.

Hank purrs and grooms Connor’s face, cleaning around his eyes and ears with care. It’ll take time before he’s able to hunt or leave the den, but that’s fine for now. All that matters is that he’s resting and well, and their clutch is held safe between them.

_ Did I do good this time?  _ Connor asks, leaning heavily into Hank’s side as he tucks his head under his mate’s chin and closes his eyes. _ I told you it’d all work out like it needed to. _

_ It did,  _ Hank answers with a huff, shaking his big head.  _ You did amazing, Con. _

Connors breathing is beginning to deepen, and he purrs just the slightest for Hank until exhaustion truly begins to take over.  _ We’ll see how  _ ** _you_ ** _ do, next time, _ he says, the devious little imp, and Hank’s gut tightens at the thought but in a way that isn’t entirely unpleasant.

In fact, he thinks, as he dutifully watches over Connor and their handsome clutch of eggs, as precious as any jewels, maybe he’s already looking forward to it.   
  
  



End file.
